


Tactical Field Care

by Veldeia



Category: Marvel Noir
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt Tony Stark, Love Confessions, M/M, Medical Procedures, Mutual Pining, Protective Steve Rogers, Whump, Wilderness Survival, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-23 00:45:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13178754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veldeia/pseuds/Veldeia
Summary: One unlucky shot is enough to turn a mission in occupied France into a nightmare, but Steve isn't going to leave Tony behind, no matter what.A fill for the community gift prompt: "Any: Field surgery + wilderness survival".





	Tactical Field Care

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cap Iron Man Community](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Cap+Iron+Man+Community).



> I decided to not even try and keep this medically solid, and went for some good old whump tropes instead. Because sometimes you just want all the tropes. Consider this my gift to everyone who enjoys classic clichéd hurt/comfort!
> 
> Content warning for plenty of blood and a bit of improvised surgery.

"Tony, come on, not much longer now," Steve coaxes. "As soon as we find a safe spot, we can rest."

Tony's trying, he really is, but just staying on his feet is a struggle. His back burns, his chest aches, and every breath feels like someone's twisting a knife in his side. He tries not to think too much about what it all must mean. He can feel the wetness at his back where Steve's hand is pressed over the dressing.

He's tired, too, so tired that no matter how much he's hurting, he wants nothing more than to lie down on the ground and drift off. Preferably with Steve next to him. Like he is now, right by Tony's side, a constant unwavering support, warm and solid.

He'd curl up against Steve, his arms around Steve's waist, his face buried in Steve's neck. Like he's wanted to do for a long time, during their shared missions, but has never dared to ask. Maybe Steve would be all right with it. Then Tony could stop fighting and just fade away.

"Tony? Tony! Hey, no. Come on. Stay with me," Steve calls out, demanding and concerned at the same time.

Tony realizes he's leaning his full weight against Steve; if not for that, he'd have slumped to the ground. He forces his heavy eyelids open and tries to find his footing again, hanging on to Steve's shoulder.

He's just so tired, and everything hurts, and it feels like they've been running forever.

  


* * *

  


Steve feels terrible, pushing Tony to keep going, when it's so obvious he's at the end of his rope. They just don't have much choice. He hasn't heard a sound from their pursuers in over an hour, so he's fairly sure they've lost them by now, but they need to find a position that's safe and defendable before they can afford to stop. So, he keeps pushing, changing from a sharp commanding tone to a gentle pleading one in turn, to keep Tony moving.

They've been on the run for three days now, carrying crucial intelligence on Hydra's most recent weapons designs through challenging, mountainous terrain in occupied France. Tony's survival skills and his experience of this type of surroundings have been a tremendous help. That they almost got caught today was nothing but pure bad luck.

Steve isn't even sure if the German patrol they ran into was Hydra, or just some regular soldiers out hunting for Resistance guerrillas. They didn't stick around to find out. Steve and Tony could probably have taken out the enemies if they'd stopped to fight, but their priority was to get the information back to General Fury. They'd chosen to run instead of risking even the slightest chance of the all-important documents ending up back in the enemy's hands.

Just as it was pure bad luck that they crossed paths with the patrol in the first place, it was incredibly bad luck that Tony was hit; the Nazis were shooting at them blindly, and one stray bullet accidentally found a target.

Steve isn't sure how bad it is, exactly. They only stopped for long enough that he could bind it quickly with a field dressing, so all he knows is that there's a bleeding wound in Tony's back, on the left side, just below his ribs. Steve hopes it's only a graze. Considering that Tony's still on his feet, more or less, Steve thinks it can't be hopelessly bad; if the bullet had gone deep and damaged a vital organ, Tony would've collapsed on the spot, and there would've been nothing Steve could've done. Still, even if the injury isn't hopeless, it's bad. Tony's lost plenty of blood, and it's obvious they can't go on like this for much longer.

Steve looks around. They've reached a strange expanse of pale rock, riddled with little crevices and cracks. It seems promising. He aims for the clump of trees he sees close to one edge of it, holding on to Tony tightly. Tony's dragging his feet, and here and there, Steve ends up simply lifting him over the uneven ground they're traversing. Some of the crevices seem very deep, so deep that he doesn't even see the bottom. That's definitely something they can use to their advantage.

It feels like their luck might finally be turning: they come across a rock formation jutting up from the ground, creating a sheltered alcove. Its open side is shaded by the trees, offering cover, but giving a good view over the open area. They'll see anyone approaching from the distance, and the rock walls will hide a fire from view. The only thing that's lacking is a roof, but the weather has been decent, so the chance of rain is low. This will do nicely.

Steve guides Tony to sit down against the rock wall. He settles there, eyes half closed, breathing raggedly, arms crossed over his chest. He looks all too pale.

Steve is reluctant to turn his back to Tony for even one minute, but the night will be chilly, and with Tony wounded, it's even more crucial that they stay warm.

He drapes their one remaining blanket over Tony. "I need to get a fire going, okay?" he says, one hand on Tony's bicep. "Stay put."

Tony smiles at Steve ruefully. "I'd offer to lend a hand, but…" he trails off. His voice is hoarse, but at least he's entirely coherent.

Steve gives Tony's arm a reassuring squeeze. "You just rest."

"Will do, Cap," Tony promises, using the nickname even though Steve isn't wearing his costume for this covert mission.

Before he became Captain America, Steve Rogers was very much a city kid who had never spent time out of doors. He's had to learn quick during the war, especially since he's ended up on many clandestine missions that require traversing enemy territory—like the one they're on currently, although this particular cross-country hike was unplanned, due to a failed rendezvous. Steve has been on several assignments with Tony, and they've been the best training he's received. Tony's been going on adventures in all kinds of remote places for most of his life, and could probably survive for months on end with nothing but a knife and a piece of string.

Usually, they split their tasks equally, seeing to fire, shelter, food and water, but tonight, it will all be up to Steve. He's not going to do anything elaborate. Their little crevice is good enough as it is, they still have rations left, and as for water, they'll have to make do. Water is a particular challenge in this region; there are very few streams or lakes. Last night, when things were still good, Tony explained it's because rainwater rapidly sinks through the porous ground and ends up in underground rivers. That led to a description of some exciting underground places Tony's been to.

Steve loves listening to Tony talk about his exploits as the hero of Marvels, a magazine Steve has occasionally read himself. There's such excitement on his face, then, and when he smiles, it's almost enough to make Steve forget where they are. He often wishes they'd met in different circumstances. Maybe things could've been different between them.

For now, he'll do whatever he can to make sure both of them get back home alive.

Steve sets out to find fuel for a fire. They're right at the edge of a forest, so it's not too difficult. As fast as he can, he collects an armful of twigs and branches. He even manages to find some bark to use as tinder, just like Tony taught him. 

When he gets back, he's surprised to find Tony not just awake, but squinting at a map in the waning daylight. Earlier on, during their run, he seemed to be fading in and out. Getting off his feet seems to have helped stabilize him.

"I thought I told you to rest," Steve tells him, setting down his spoils by a depression in the rocky floor of their shelter that should make a good fire pit.

Tony ignores his words and lifts the map towards him instead. He points a finger at a part of it that is clearly lighter than most, marking the limestone outcropping they're at. "We're here. There should be a village there," he moves his finger some inches across. "Less than a day. A lot less for you."

It's obvious what Tony means, even if he doesn't actually say it. It's right there, in the brittleness of his voice and the imploring look in his eyes. This is an important mission, Tony has become a liability, and Steve should go on alone.

Steve is going to pretend he didn't catch the implication. "That's good," he says. "We'll rest and set off at first light. We'll be there in no time."

"Steve—” Tony begins.

Steve isn't going to have it. "Save your strength," he says sharply, and focuses on building the fire.

Even if he's doing it in a hurry, he's quite pleased with the end result. Once the fire's lit, it quickly begins to warm up their rocky nook, and Steve can turn his full attention to Tony. He pulls off his dirty and bloodied gloves and crouches by Tony's side.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, as he places his fingers at Tony's throat to take his pulse. It's quite fast, but otherwise good, as far as Steve can tell.

He's no field medic, but advanced first aid is another set of skills that he has gained during the war. He wishes it hadn't been necessary. He's seen far too many injuries, and lost too many friends.

"Could be worse," Tony says, and coughs softly. As answers go, it's not particularly reassuring.

"Lean forwards," Steve orders, and pulls up Tony's jacket and shirt to reveal his back. Tony shivers at the cool air hitting his bare skin, but doesn't say anything.

Steve tears off the soaked dressing. Thankfully, it seems the wound has clotted and isn't bleeding anymore. He uses some of their precious water to clean off the worst of the congealed blood around it, giving him his first good look at the injury, and—his heart sinks.

It's a neat, round bullet hole, and it's very clearly not some superficial graze. It's an entry wound.

It can't be that bad, Steve tells himself once more, like he's been telling himself all day. If the bullet had clipped a lung, surely Tony wouldn't be talking to Steve anymore. Still, it's not good, either.

He tears open a new field dressing to bind the wound again. That done, he guides Tony to sit upright, to take a look at his front. There's no exit wound, Steve's sure of that. He would've noticed it, the way he's had Tony propped against his side all day. The only blood on Tony's clothes is on his back.

"I think the bullet's still in you," he tells Tony.

Tony grimaces, but doesn't seem surprised in the least. "Yes, I think so too."

"Where does it hurt?" Steve asks.

"Back and chest," Tony admits. "But that's nothing new."

Ten times more alarmed, Steve frowns at him. "How come?"

"Things you don't know about me," Tony says cryptically, rubbing at the left side of his chest. That doesn't help Steve's soaring concern at all. "You should take a look," Tony adds. "I might need your help."

Tony starts unbuttoning his jacket, but his hands are shaking badly. Steve gently takes hold of his wrists to stop him, moving them aside to take over.

He's thought about getting Tony out of his clothes, dreamed about it, even, he can't deny that, but certainly not like this.

Steve pulls aside Tony's jacket and shirt to reveal his chest, and to find out that there's a metal plate covering the left side of it, strapped to his shoulder. It's like some kind of an armor plate, but why is it there?

"Tony? What's this?" he asks.

Tony reaches over with his right hand to detach the plate. Under it, embedded in Tony's skin, is a round glass panel. Even in the flickering firelight, reflecting from the glass and distorting the view, Steve thinks he can see Tony's heart beating deep beneath it.

Steve can't quite contain the shocked gasp at what he's witnessing. "Dear God," he blurts out, "what happened to you?"

"If I make it, I'll tell you," Tony says curtly. His hand is on his side again, but instead of just rubbing at it in pain, he's running his fingers methodically over his skin, following the outer edge of the panel by his left armpit, then down his side, along his ribs. He stops, not far below the glass, his concentrated, serious look turning into something between a grin and a grimace. "Well, there you are," he breathes. "Turns out I'm one lucky bastard after all."

Looking away from the disconcerting glass panel, at the stretch of skin Tony's fingers rest on, Steve realizes that there's visible bruising there. Tony reaches for Steve's hand and presses it against the spot. Moving his fingers a little, Steve can feel a hard lump under Tony's skin, between his ribs. The bullet.

"It needs to come out," Tony says urgently.

Steve glances from the bruised skin to the rim of the glass window, less than two inches apart. Tony seems stable for now, the wound in his back no longer bleeding. Cutting into his chest sounds like a terrible idea.

"Wouldn't it be better to wait, let a doctor—" he begins.

"No." Tony's fingers close around Steve's, squeezing tight, and for the first time, Steve thinks he sees a touch of panic in the pain-clouded blue of Tony's gaze. "It can't wait. It's too close to the repulsor pump. I can't risk an infection. Steve, you've got to help me. It has to come out."

Tony's already injured, feeling awful, and might not be thinking clearly, but Steve has to admit he probably knows better anyway, because Steve has never even seen the mysterious device in Tony's chest before today.

"All right," Steve concedes.

He opens both their first aid kits on the ground by the fire. His own is a standard model, with very limited contents. He's already used the field dressing and the sulfa drugs, leaving just a tourniquet and a morphine syrette.

He considers the morphine. Tony's obviously in a lot of pain, even if he's trying to play it down, and it's only going to get more intense. On the other hand, his breathing doesn't seem quite normal, with that wound in his side. The drug could make it worse.

He holds out the syrette, offering it to Tony. "What do you think?"

Tony shakes his head, his face grim. "I'd rather keep a clear head. I'll manage."

That's decided, Steve turns his attention back to the supplies. Tony's first aid kit, which is one of the few things they kept when they discarded his pack after he was shot, is anything but standard. There's even what looks like a tiny toolkit in it. Now that Steve's seen Tony's chest, that makes a lot of sense.

"Make sure you keep everything as clean as you can," Tony instructs. "There's an iodine swab, use that to disinfect the skin. Sterilize any instruments you'll use in the fire."

"Tony, don't worry, I know what I'm doing," Steve tells him, trying to sound more reassuring than he feels.

In theory, he does know what he's doing; it shouldn't even be that complicated. In practice, he's only ever had to do something like this on himself, and that's different, because he heals much faster than the average person. Tony won't.

He lays out the tools he'll need by Tony's side, and washes his hands as carefully as he can without wasting too much of their precious water. There's no scalpel in Tony's kit, so Steve also rinses his knife to get rid of any dirt before holding it in the fire to sterilize it, followed by the forceps that he thinks look like the best tool for extracting the bullet. In spite of all the precautions, it all seems very rudimentary to him, but it's the best he can do under the circumstances.

Tony's made his own preparations: he's detached his belt. As Steve has him lie down on the ground and takes position by his side, Tony says, "I trust you. You'll do fine," before looping the belt and placing it between his teeth, bracing himself for what's to come.

Steve really doesn't want to do this. If he had a choice, he'd much rather stab himself between the ribs. But he's promised Tony, and Tony trusts in him to get it done.

He feels around over the bruised skin to have the exact position, swabs the area clean, and brings the knife over it to make the cut. He does his best to be precise, but still quick.

As the knife slices into his skin, Tony flinches and lets out a muffled grunt, biting down on the belt. Steve tries to pay no heed to that. There will be time for regret and worry once he's finished.

He keeps the cut as small as possible, just enough to reveal the bullet. As soon as he's broken the skin, it starts to bleed, and it's much worse than he thought it'd be, a flood that instantly obscures his view of his target. He swears under his breath. He's not sure if this is normal, or if he's nicked a blood vessel, or if—the worst case of all—it means Tony's been bleeding internally all this time.

"What?" Tony mouths, the word clear even formed around the belt, his eyes wide in alarm.

"It's fine," Steve lies.

With a his left hand, he grabs a wad of clean gauze to wipe off the blood so that he can make out the pale shapes of Tony's ribs and the metal of the bullet between them.

He can handle this. He's seen plenty of wounds before.

He picks up the forceps with his right hand and manages to catch hold of the bullet, but it's lodged firmly in place. It refuses to budge when he tries to pry it out.

Tony groans, his back arching up from the ground, the movement threatening to make Steve lose his grip.

There's so much blood, running down Tony's chest, staining his shirt and the waistline of his trousers—Steve has to finish this fast. He can't afford to be gentle. He uses his free hand to hold Tony down and tugs at the bullet more forcefully, not allowing himself to think how much it must hurt, not looking at Tony's face.

With a nauseating feeling of metal scraping against bone, the bullet finally comes free.

Steve drops it and the forceps on the ground and presses firmly on the wound with the gauze, hoping to stem the bleeding as quickly as possible. The coppery smell of it hangs heavily in the air, and no matter how used to bloodshed Steve has grown during the war, he feels sick.

"It's out, it's done," he says, as much to himself as to Tony.

Tony relaxes against the ground, wincing as the older wound in his back hits the hard surface. He spits out the belt and just lies there, his eyes glazed over, his chest shuddering with rapid, shaky breaths under Steve's hands.

"Tony? You still with me?" Steve asks after a while, when Tony still hasn't said anything.

"Yeah. Tired," Tony mumbles, not looking at Steve.

"Do you know where you are?" Steve tries.

"Give me the map, I'll show you," Tony says, the words slurred and his voice raspy, but at least he sounds lucid.

Steve lifts the soaked gauze off the wound. The bleeding seems to have dwindled, but not stopped. Pressing down on it with one hand again, Steve wipes the blood-stained fingers of the other on his trousers, then feels for the pulse at Tony's neck. It's still too fast, and distinctly weaker, now. To make sure it's not just his concern talking, he double-checks at Tony's wrist, and can only barely find the faint beat there. Tony's skin feels cool under Steve's fingers. Another obvious warning sign.

Tony's falling into shock and needs proper treatment, without delay, but the terrain is too precarious to even consider traveling in the dark. All Steve can do is to keep him warm and hope he'll make it through the night.

  


* * *

  


In theory, Tony should feel better: the impending threat of a fatal infection is by no means entirely gone, but the risk should be significantly lower now that the bullet's out. He doesn't feel better, though. He feels like he's dying.

Again, logically thinking, he knows this is a physical response, the blood loss leading to shock leading to this dread and hopelessness and weariness that's so deep it makes even sitting up seem like an impossible feat. With the constant stabs of pain through the left side of his chest, so close to the repulsor pump, it's all too much like running out of power, which he knows he isn't, and he won't, that doesn't happen to him anymore. But no matter what he tells himself, it feels like his fluttering heart might just stop any moment now.

Maybe it would be for the best if he did die now, sooner rather than later.

Even if he makes it through the night, they're still far from civilization. The nearest village is miles away, and there are no level roads or paths to walk on. The chances of Tony reaching it, considering the shape he's in, are slim. He will slow Steve down far too much.

Slowing down Steve is all he's done today. Steve has spent a lot of time taking care of him, tending to his wounds, and all that when there's no guarantee that he'll survive. Their mission is too important for delays like this. It's crucial that they get the intelligence they've collected back home. The information they have on Hydra's new weapons designs could save countless lives. Tony is just one man. One life for hundreds, or thousands, or more. The equation is simple enough.

It was selfish of him to ask Steve to get the bullet out. That was just more wasted time, and now Steve will blame himself when Tony dies, even if it would've been inevitable anyway.

Steve is currently resting behind him, his front against Tony's back, under the blanket, almost like Tony always wished for, and yet not at all. In front of them burns the fire, but although Tony can feel the heat of the flames and that of Steve's body behind him, he still doesn't feel warm.

"Steve," Tony says. He knows what he needs to say, he knows it's the right thing, so why is his voice breaking?

"I'm right here," Steve says, moving his hand to Tony's arm. "What is it?"

Tony tries to clear his throat, but all that does is to send a renewed wave of pain through his ribs. "Steve, you need to go. Leave me and go."

"I'll do no such thing. I don't leave people behind," Steve says, in his unwavering Captain America tone.

"But the mission," Tony reminds him. "It's more important. Than me."

Steve runs his hand up and down Tony's arm, soothing. "Shhh. Don't worry about that. We'll finish the mission. Everything's going to be all right."

  


* * *

  


Even as Steve does his best to reassure Tony that everything will be fine, his throat feels tight with dismay over what Tony's saying. He can't believe Tony's even asking this of him; he knows Tony wouldn't leave him behind, no matter what. He realizes Tony's not thinking straight, with all the blood loss and pain, but the way he's speaking sounds coherent, like he's been considering this all night.

It's true that the mission is crucial, but they can afford this delay. They have to. Tony is important as well. One could even say he's critically important to the mission; Steve can carry the schematics to the General, but he doubts anyone will understand them quite as well as Tony, who's well versed in these things and has seen the test facility and the technology with his own eyes.

Of course, it's not just that. Steve would be lying if he'd claim Tony isn't personally important to him. He's one of the few fixed points Steve has had during the war, someone he can trust without question. He's taught Steve so much, and they've shared so much; the thought of him being gone is unimaginable.

So, he holds Tony close, and does his best to soothe him. Eventually, Tony's strained breathing evens out a little, and he relaxes against Steve, unconscious or asleep. Steve knows letting Tony sleep is risky, that there's a chance he won't wake up again, but he does need to rest if they are to get anywhere tomorrow, and there are still many hours to go until morning.

Tony shivers in Steve's arms, even though to Steve, it feels quite warm under their shared blanket. Cautiously, Steve brushes his fingers against the dressing over the cut he made. It feels damp, bled through. Steve sighs. At least Tony's still breathing, and Steve can still feel the beats of his heart when he rests a hand on Tony's chest, by that strange glass window.

Steve doesn't sleep a blink that night, keeping a close eye on Tony, and his ears open for the slightest sound that could herald an approaching enemy patrol. All he hears is wind rustling in the trees and howling in the cracks and crevices of the limestone surrounding them, and cows mooing somewhere in the distance. Not a single footstep, let alone a gunshot or an explosion. It's almost as if they weren't at war. Almost as if they were just sleeping by a campfire, on an adventure together.

If only it weren't like this.

Even if it's peaceful and uneventful, it feels as long as many a sleepless night Steve has spent in the trenches. Each time Tony's breath catches and stops for a moment, it sends Steve's heart pounding anxiously, but at a nudge or a squeeze of his arm, Tony always comes out of it. Still there, still fighting.

Eventually, the eastern sky begins to lighten, darkness giving way to a new morning. Steve gets up to break camp. There's not much left to do; he packed their remaining supplies at night, in case they'd need to run again. He stomps out the fire, makes sure there's nothing lying around, and finally, crouches by Tony's side. He pulls away the blanket, quickly ties it to his pack, and places a hand on Tony's shoulder.

"Tony," he calls out. 

Tony turns his head away from Steve's voice and groans. In the morning light, his face looks almost white. Even his lips are colorless.

"Tony," Steve repeats, shaking him as gently as he can. "We need to get moving."

This time, Tony opens his eyes, but they're dazed and unfocused. "Steve? What?"

"We're on the run, remember? Today's the day we get back to safety and get you some help," Steve tells him, hoping that he's just confused waking up, and not so far gone that he doesn't understand where he is anymore.

Tony seems to need a moment to grasp what Steve is saying, but when he does, his eyebrows go up, his expression growing agitated. "Oh. Hydra. The mission! We need to go." He starts to get up, only to fall back instantly, curling up on his good side, a hand pressed over his chest.

"Take it slow, let me help," Steve says.

Heedful of the older wound on Tony's back, Steve places an arm around Tony's shoulders to help him sit up, his side against the rock. Just the simple change in position seems to take a lot out of him; his eyes close and his breathing turns ragged. Steve gives him a moment to let it settle, and helps him button up his shirt. The metal plate that was covering the glass panel in his chest goes in Steve's pack, because its edge would sit too close to the wound.

"Okay," Tony finally says, sitting up straight, squaring his shoulders. "Let's do this."

Steve picks up the pack and offers Tony his support again. Tony puts his right arm over Steve's shoulders and stands up, slowly, shakily, leaning on Steve. He doesn't get all the way there before his knees start to fold. Steve holds on to him, one hand firmly on his hip, one clasping his hand. Tony manages to find his balance, but when Steve glances at his face, it seems to have grown paler still.

With Steve taking most of Tony's weight, they step out of their shelter and onto the tricky, rocky ground. It's a good thing they're close to its edge and not in the middle; it takes them almost ten minutes just to cross the remaining stretch of it onto more even forest floor.

Once they've reached level ground, Tony seems to find his feet properly, or maybe it's the adrenalin of being on the move that kicks in. Either way, although he's still depending on Steve's support, he's walking. They're making progress, slow as it is.

They keep up this sluggish but constant pace for over an hour, traveling in silence, the only sounds their footsteps and Tony's harsh breaths, occasionally broken by coughs. This must be like torture to him. Steve knows there's only so long they can keep going. Steve is navigating both on the broad scale and the close distance, keeping track of the compass bearing and of the rocks and roots that might trip Tony's shuffling feet.

By Steve's reckoning, they're still more than two miles away from the village when Tony begins to falter. The first time it happens he still manages to keep going, but only a few steps later, he stumbles again, and after the third time, his legs won't hold him anymore, even with Steve taking most of his weight. Steve helps him to rest against a thick tree trunk.

"Cap?" Tony peers at him, brow furrowed. The blue of his eyes is the only spot of color on his ashen face.

"Still here," Steve says, kneeling by his side.

"Where?" Tony asks, his confusion obvious.

"We're not far from that village now," Steve tells him. "Just a little longer."

"No, I—need to charge," Tony raises his hand to his chest, then pulls it back in surprise, staring at his fingers. There's blood on his fingertips, from a stain on his jacket where the wound has bled through. His breath hitches, his frown growing deeper. "No. Not the charge. The bullet."

"Yeah. We're on the run carrying important documents. You were shot," Steve reminds him. He can guess the charge would have something to do with the device in Tony's chest; he really hopes that's not an additional thing they need to worry about, because Steve has no idea how it works, and the situation is bad enough as it is.

"So tired," Tony says, his eyes falling shut, his head lolling backwards against the tree trunk.

They can't waste time sitting around. Tony's not going to last much longer, and it's clear he won't be able to walk anymore.

"Come on. I'm getting you out of here," Steve says, and scoops Tony up in his arms. Holding him like this is more strenuous and more difficult to balance than a fireman's carry, but hopefully less aggravating to his injuries.

Tony groans at the movement, but doesn't resist, just settles against Steve.

Steve sets off towards the village, moving as fast as he dares.

In less than half an hour, they come across a forest track. Although it's riskier moving out in the open, Steve decides to go for it, because it will save a lot of time. The track brings them to the edge of the forest. Downhill, perhaps five hundred yards from them, lies a small group of buildings with a church in the middle. Steve can spot a few people moving in the streets, but from this distance, he can't tell if any are wearing Nazi uniforms.

He leaves the track and returns to the forest to look for a sheltered place, and when he finds one, a thicket by a large boulder, he sets Tony down by it. Tony's been quiet and still through most of their run, worryingly so. He stays on the ground where Steve's placed him, unmoving, his eyes closed. His breathing isn't harsh anymore, but inaudible.

It can't be too late. They're so close now.

Steve holds the back of his hand over Tony's mouth, and thank God, he can still feel a whisper of air moving against it.

Steve drops his pack by Tony's side. The only thing he'll take with him are the documents, which he places inside his shirt, to be absolutely certain they're safe. Then, he takes the blanket and wraps it around Tony.

He hates doing this, but he has to do reconnaissance first; he needs to make contact with friendlies before he can take Tony in.

"I'm coming back soon. It will be okay. I promise," he says, resting his hand on Tony's clammy cheek.

Unexpectedly, Tony's eyelids flutter open. "Steve," he whispers, the most harrowing look on his face.

  


* * *

  


It's as if he's been granted one last moment of clarity before he goes under: Tony remembers it all, he knows what this is and what's going on.

Steve has finally come to his senses. He's understood there's no hope for Tony, not anymore, not when he's almost too weak to even keep his eyes open or to draw another breath. He's leaving Tony behind, just like Tony asked him to. The mission must come first. It's supposed to be okay. It's what he wanted. But he feels so afraid and so cold, and he doesn't really want to be alone, when the end comes.

"I'm not leaving you. I'll be back before you know it," Steve says. Of course he'd say that. A white lie to make Tony feel better. He's not coming back, not really.

This is Tony's last chance.

He tries to reach out with his hand, a feeble, uncoordinated movement. Steve notices it and takes Tony's fingers between both his hands. They're warm.

"Steve, I'm," he begins. Every word is a struggle, but he has to do this. "In love. With you," he finishes.

There's gray creeping in at the edges of his vision, and the air is too thick and he can't catch his breath, but that's okay. He's said it.

Steve's talking to him. Tony can't focus; he can't make sense of the words anymore. Steve sounds angry and demanding.

Maybe Steve is disgusted and it's better this way.

Tony lets himself drift off.

  


* * *

  


The village, it turns out, is so small and isolated that there is no constant German presence there. Making contact with the Resistance is almost too easy: Steve walks into the tavern by the church, and within fifteen minutes, he's talking to members of the local Maquis cell. The first thing he learns is that the village is also too small to have a resident doctor in it, and locals end up stuck trying to decide on the best, fastest way of getting Tony the help he desperately needs.

Steve should be feeling hopeful. Instead, he feels like he's sleepwalking through a nightmare, going through the motions but oddly detached from everything around him. He can't stop thinking about the inconsolable look on Tony's face and those words that he said that he undoubtedly expected to be his last.

Tony thinks Steve has abandoned him.

Tony is in love with him.

Tony might be dead by now. This is all taking far too long.

In the middle of a long-winded discussion in French, parts of which are too fast for Steve to follow, he decides he's had enough. He stands up and tells the Frenchmen that he's going to get his wounded friend, will be back in under ten minutes, and that he hopes they'll have a plan of action by that time.

Running as fast as he can, Steve hurries back to Tony. He's right where Steve left him, hidden from sight behind the bushes, lying on the forest floor on his good side. He hasn't moved an inch, and Steve can't find the pulse at his wrist anymore. For a moment, he's sure he's too late and this has all been for nothing, but when he rests his trembling fingers at Tony's carotid, he finds a thready beat.

There's still hope, a slim chance that Tony's words were not his last, and Steve will get to respond to them so that Tony hears and understands.

Steve picks Tony up again and rushes towards the village. He doesn't let go of him for a long time after that.

The maquisards have come through for them, after all: there's a tractor with an ancient-looking wooden trailer waiting for them at the village, and soon, they're on the way towards some kind of a hospital set up by the Resistance. Steve sits in the trailer, holding Tony in his lap, as they trundle along more forest tracks zig-zagging down a steep hillside. Tony stays unconscious all through the bumpy ride that must last over an hour. At least it means he's not in any pain.

Eventually, they reach a town, much larger than the tiny village, where they stop at an inconspicuous building far from the center. There, Steve finally hands Tony over to more skilled hands.

With nothing more left that he can do for Tony, Steve proceeds to do what he can to forward their mission. He meets some of the local Maquis leaders, and gives them a brief summary of what he and Tony have found out. It might not be the most prudent course of action, since he doesn't know them and can't be entirely sure how trustworthy they are, but he feels like the least he can do for them is to warn them of Hydra's new weapons. After a lot of talking, he also manages to gain access to a radio, set up in a nearby building, so he can send a coded message to General Fury. Hopefully, Fury's men will organize a pickup for Steve and Tony, one that will not end up in an ambush like their previous scheduled rendezvous.

His duties done, Steve returns to the hospital to sit and wait. The hospital is in fact a large country house whose owner has generously allowed it to be repurposed, with a handful of volunteering doctors and nurses helping the injured. The room Steve waits in is furnished like any regular hallway, with no hint of the place's current function. There are landscape paintings on the walls, and dried roses in a vase on the table. It all adds to the constant dream-like, unreal feeling Steve has. It's as if he might wake up at any moment and find himself back on that rocky plateau, lying in front of the fire, holding Tony in his arms.

Tony said he's in love with Steve. Steve's never really put that label on his own feelings for Tony, but now that it's been said, it rings true, more than any other word he can think of. There's friendship between them, as deep as any he's felt, but there's attraction, too. There have been many moments when Steve's wanted so much to pull Tony close and kiss him; to learn all the things he enjoys and to make him feel good.

It's certainly not the first time Steve has felt this way about another man, but it's the first time those feelings have been mutual.

If only he'd had the courage to say something to Tony.

Far sooner than Steve would've expected, a local doctor shows up with news. It's neither good nor bad: he tells Steve that in his opinion, the best approach is to give Tony transfusions, intravenous fluids and pain medication, and hope that he pulls through. Like Steve, he seems convinced that for Tony to have survived as long as he has, the bullet is unlikely to have caused critical damage, so it's better not to worsen the already severe blood loss with exploratory surgery. He's also just as baffled as Steve is by the device in Tony's chest, which probably makes him more reluctant to do anything invasive.

The doctor's expression is serious enough all through the conversation that Steve can tell he's not sure whether Tony will make it, but at least he seems to think Tony has a fighting chance.

Steve asks if he can see Tony. The doctor points out that Tony's unlikely to wake up anytime soon, but gives him the directions to Tony's room either way.

The room turns out to be a regular bedroom, and a full one at that, with two beds and two mattresses on the floor, all of them occupied. The other patients seem better off than Tony is: the two on the mattresses are currently deep in conversation, the third, on the bed opposite to Tony's, is reading a book.

Tony's chest is entirely covered by a blanket, and there's a length of tubing running from his arm to a bottle of blood hanging from a hook in the wall above his bed. He doesn't look any healthier than the last Steve saw him: his face is just as wan and lifeless, his breathing just as faint.

Not caring about what the others in the room might think, Steve sits down on the floor by Tony's bed and takes hold of his hand. Reflexively, his fingers curl around Tony's wrist to find the pulse point. The thrum of it still feels too weak to him, but at least he can feel it, and Tony's skin is no longer as cool as it was.

Steve settles into as comfortable a position as he can find on the floor. One of the Frenchmen offers him a pillow to sit on. He refuses it at first, but the man is persistent, the floor is hard, and Steve's not planning on leaving Tony's side anytime soon, so he relents. It does help, and he's grateful.

Steve's not exactly planning on dozing off, but it's been over thirty hours since he last had any sleep, and even then, it was intermittent; each and every night before Tony was shot, they took turns keeping guard, and were constantly prepared to break camp at a moment's notice.

Sleeping whenever he gets the chance is yet another skill Steve has gained as Captain America. Currently, they're as safe as they can be, and Steve has done all he needed to. So, eventually, he ends up nodding off, his head in the crook of his elbow which rests on Tony's bed, his other hand still clasping Tony's.

He comes around with a jolt, feeling like he's only just closed his eyes, to the unnerving sensation of someone staring at him. His reflexes take over instantly and he spins around to face the door, but there's no one there. The room is dark, the lights off, pale moonlight filtering in through the curtains. One of the Frenchmen, the one with a big mustache who offered Steve the pillow, is snoring loudly. It's clearly the dead of night, and Steve must've slept longer than he thought.

The shock of the sudden awakening starting to fade, Steve turns to face Tony, and realizes why he woke up like he did.

Tony's eyes are open, and he's watching Steve closely, an unreadable look on his face. "Steve," he says, barely louder than a whisper.

"Hey," Steve replies, keeping his voice low as well, so he won't disturb the sleeping men around them.

Just seeing that Tony's conscious is a huge relief; it feels like Steve's finally surfaced from that nightmare he was trapped in. Tony's getting better. Everything will be okay.

"You came back for me," Tony murmurs.

Steve takes Tony's fingers between both his hands. "Of course I did. I meant it when I said I wouldn't leave you behind."

"I thought," Tony begins, then stops abruptly, his appalled expression obvious even in the dim light. His fingers twitch in Steve's hold. "Oh god. I told you."

"It's okay, Tony," Steve soothes him.

"I thought I was dying," Tony goes on, like he hasn't heard Steve's words. He tries to pull his hand away from Steve. "I'm so sorry, I—"

"Tony." Steve doesn't let go, but squeezes his fingers to catch his attention. "Please don't apologize. It's okay. I'm glad you said it."

"Why would you be?" Tony ask suspiciously.

"Because someone needed to, and I wasn't brave enough." Steve lifts Tony's fingers to his lips and kisses his knuckles.

Tony gasps in surprise.

"Because I feel the same way," Steve finishes, and sets Tony's hand down by his side.

Tony raises his hand in front of his face, looking from it to Steve. Then he pulls down the blankets to reveal his bandaged chest and brings his fingers to gingerly feel around the wound. "This is all real, isn't it?"

"Yes, as real as anything," Steve assures him.

Steve glances over his shoulder at the room around them. The other inhabitants still seem fast asleep; even though the conversation has been intense, they've managed to keep its tone hushed.

He leans over Tony, his face right above Tony's, their noses almost touching. "I was terribly worried for you, you know."

"You saved my life. My hero," Tony says. His hand finds its way to the back of Steve's neck, and he lifts his head off his pillow just enough to bring their lips together in a soft, gentle kiss.

It's as if the very air in the room stops still for that brief moment. It's the most thrilling thing Steve can imagine, a first kiss shared in the middle of the night, surreptitiously, surrounded by others, while in the middle of a clandestine mission.

When Steve pulls away, Tony moves as if to sit up and follow him, but then flinches in pain, his hand flying to his injured side. That reminds Steve that the way the conversation has gone, he hasn't as much as asked Tony how he feels.

"How bad is it? Should I go get help?" he offers.

"No, no," Tony replies hurriedly. "Not too bad. Please, stay."

"Of course," Steve says.

He's certainly not going anywhere if Tony doesn't want him to. Never again. He shifts to sit closer by Tony's head instead. He places his hand on Tony's cheek, which he's pleased to note feels neither feverish nor too cool, and then runs it up to caress his hair.

"I think you should try to sleep some more, if you can," Steve says.

"I will," Tony promises. "You should, too." He takes hold of Steve's forearm and presses a kiss on the inside of his wrist.

  


* * *

  


The next time Tony wakes up, it's to a nurse moving about in the room. She's opened the curtains, and the room is bathed in pale early morning light. She's currently talking to one of the other men in the room in muted French.

Steve is sitting next to Tony, awake as well, his elbow on Tony's bed, a book on his lap. He notices Tony's awake and gives him a smile so fond that it makes his heart skip.

Can it really be that his memories of last night aren't just a pleasant dream? It's a dream he's had many times before, after all, hearing that Steve loves him back and kissing him, and it's never been real before. He's well aware that he's injured—the wound in his side is a constant, throbbing ache, and he feels so weak he wouldn't even consider trying to get up. It seems much more likely that it was all a feverish hallucination. Then again, he was entirely convinced he'd die alone, on the cold ground, Steve hurrying away, disgusted by Tony's final confession, and yet, here he is, in a nice comfortable bed, feeling miles better, warm and safe, with Steve by his side.

When the nurse reaches Tony's side and takes his vitals, he's sure she can tell how his heart is racing, but luckily, she doesn't mention it. It's not as if he could tell her why. She merely asks him how he's feeling, and he tells her he's all right. After checking the dressings on Tony's wounds and changing the IV bottle, she leaves the room, noting at the door that breakfast will be in an hour, and unless they have any urgent concerns, the doctor will make his rounds at around midday.

Even with her gone, Tony and Steve don't exactly have the room to themselves. Tony doesn't expect his French roommates to understand English very well, but it does set certain limits to their conversation.

"Steve? About last night," he begins.

Steve sets aside his book, turns to face Tony and places his hand lightly on top of Tony's. It's a simple gesture that could easily be just friendly reassurance, but the tender look in his eyes and the blush on his cheeks speak a different language. "Yes, Tony. I meant everything I said."

There's no mistaking that look, those words, and the affectionate tone of his voice. Tony wasn't imagining it. It was all real. Suddenly, the world seems brighter and more exciting than it has since the beginning of the war.

Tony wants to pull Steve into his bed and hold him close, never mind that it might hurt; to kiss him until he runs out of breath; to feel Steve's bare skin against his—but all that will have to wait. Perhaps it's for the best. It might be too much for his battered body to handle. He settles for a smile, and lacing his fingers with Steve's.

"You've no idea how glad I am to hear that," Tony says. "And I can't wait to get home."


End file.
